


what ripples out

by djhedy



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5+1 Things, AFTG Reverse Big Bang 2020, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Depression, Healing, Implied Sexual Content, Jean Moreau/Micky Costa, Kissing, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, it's not very explicit, no riko/jean content, the jerejean is very eventual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djhedy/pseuds/djhedy
Summary: Night. That’s when Jean thinks about it.Thinks it has something to do with the all-encompassing darkness of it. The oppressiveness. The way he can’t tell whether his eyes are open or closed. The black painted walls, during the day, sometimes feel soft to him, sometimes protective. Sometimes feel like an opportunity to not exist, to fade into an empty colourlessness. At night it’s unsettling: at night he can’t tell whether he’s awake.Sometimes he welcomes the nightmares. In dreams he can hear himself whispering furiously in his native tongue at his demons, almost laughing, because even this, even nightmares are respite.So he lets himself think about death.-or, Jean is ordered to fix a broken Riko, thinks about death a lot, and survives.
Relationships: Jean Moreau/Micky Costa - Relationship, Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 21
Kudos: 44





	what ripples out

**Author's Note:**

> my contribution to the reverse big bang! the tags make this seem really heavy, and it is - but it isn't gory, or excessive, and there's a happy ending. the jean/? is because i'm avoiding spoilers, but i promise there's no riko/jean content, for those of you out there who are squirmy about riko.
> 
> my artist was bastgrr, and they prompted me with:  
> "After the incident with Kevin, Riko starts spiralling out of control. Tetsuji orders Jean to deal with it."
> 
> you can see the art on tumblr which i'll link at the end! thanks bastgrr <3

**what ripples out**

_or, 5 times jean tries to call kevin and 1 time kevin answers_

**1**

Night. That’s when Jean thinks about it.

Thinks it has something to do with the all-encompassing darkness of it. The oppressiveness. The way he can’t tell whether his eyes are open or closed. The black painted walls, during the day, sometimes feel soft to him, sometimes protective. Sometimes feel like an opportunity to not exist, to fade into an empty colourlessness. At night it’s unsettling: at night he can’t tell whether he’s awake.

Sometimes he welcomes the nightmares. In dreams he can hear himself whispering furiously in his native tongue at his demons, almost laughing, because even this, even nightmares are respite.

So he lets himself think about death.

When Micky is asleep, soft breaths occasionally tripped up by a grunt or a snore; turning over restlessly as he does.

Jean is as still as possible.

And wonders if death will be like this.

Like lying as still as possible; like a black-painted room; like it’s so dark he doesn’t even know if his eyes are open; like knowing how, for absolute certain, nothing he’s ever considered wanting will be achievable; like darkness reaching its fingers into his skin; like the feeling of running for a bus and missing it by seconds; like walking down stairs and missing the last step; like he’s _missing_ something and he can’t work out what;

Like he doesn’t even know if his eyes are open.

Morning comes, and it’s not light streaming through a window that tells him, though a childhood memory quickly supplies him with what that’s like, soft morning light hitting his eyelids, his face lighting up in a grin, mattress lightening as he rushes into the day.

His face doesn’t change as the alarm goes off. He’s been awake an hour. He sleeps ok, when he sleeps; maybe 5 hours a night. Sometimes he’s lucky and it’s 6. But they’re in their beds for 7. So he’s been awake for an hour.

Usually his nightmares are a welcome reprieve, a break from the horror of reality.

But last night.

“God, is it morning already?”

“Yes.”

Last night all he remembers is the shatter of bone, a quiet hoarse yell, the feeling of his fingers sinking into a shaking arm, over, and over, and over

“You… you shower first? I’m having another – just five minutes…”

“Ok.”

Kevin’s face as it contorted in pain.

Jean pushes the covers aside and pushes out of bed and pushes into the shower, and lets hot water and hot steam and the bright white of the shower stall blink their way into his head until all dreams of death fade away.

They’re going to the winter banquet. Yet another in a sometimes seemingly-endless list of exy traditions that he cannot be bothered to form an opinion about. Sometimes he wishes they’d just be left to play, just focus on the game. Sometimes his body can see the point to forced movement. To letting the waves of his teammates’ enthusiasm carry him through gym, through breakfast, through the traditional jokes about who’s wearing what – despite the fact they all wear the same, the same as each other, every time – through the parking lot.

Outside the bus, when they’re still waiting for everyone to arrive, Micky says, “You see Kevin at breakfast?”

Jean shrugs, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, going through his mental checklist again. “No. Why.”

Micky looks away. “Just didn’t see him.”

“Maybe he wasn’t hungry.”

Micky gives him a look and, ok, it is quite unusual that No.2 doesn’t turn up for his scheduled, healthy, balanced breakfast.

And Jean thinks _his hand is broken_.

But what he says is, “Riko will know.”

And that satisfies Micky, who nods, begins to look around cautiously for No.1.

Jean thinks _Riko wasn’t at breakfast either, and presumably Micky noticed that too._

They board the bus, Jean dragging heavy feet up onto each step, onto the bus, past the driver and the coaches, and: yes, Riko, sat on the first bench, one unfilled space next to him. Jean doesn’t look, but Micky is a freshman, and he’s only been here a few months, and he says, “Hey, where’s Kevin?”

Riko is colourless, almost, the only colour in his face the darkness in his eyes, almost as black as his hair, and Jean thinks: _white and black are not colours_ , and he thinks: _those black eyes are the only colour in his face_. Riko’s eyes widen, tense, his hands limp fists in his lap, and Jean is behind Micky, and gives him a quick shove into their bench behind Riko’s.

Micky looks at him as he falls into his seat, lifts his hands as if to say _what?_

Jean shakes his head. Puts a finger to his lips. Gets comfortable and closes his eyes.

It’s not a long journey. A few hours later and Micky is shaking Jean awake, as if he’d been asleep – or maybe he had been – and then they’re loading themselves into the stadium, into suits, and Micky brushes one hand down Jean’s arm, dusts off his shoulder, smiles at him when the others aren’t around, and they walk side by side onto the court.

Kevin isn’t with them.

And it has the whole team feeling unsteady. They keep glancing at Riko, at Jean even, and Jean isn’t entirely sure what they want from him: not quite a right-hand-man, not quite a servant, not quite a death-wish. But he has _3_ tattooed on his face and sometimes Riko will go weeks without feeling the itch to remind him what he came from. So sometimes the others look at him like: _what do we do now, boss?_

Jean holds his head high as he follows a still too silent Riko over to their table, hears the others get in line behind them.

But only a few minutes later Riko stands, abruptly, and leaves. Conversation stilts, a half-word abandoned by Connor by Jean’s ear.

Jean looks across to the Coach’s table to see the Master stand and follow after him.

So he looks down the table to Micky, receives a raised eyebrow, looks at the amused expression on Connor’s face, like, _Well I was fucking bored so thank god something is happening,_ looks down at his plate.

Waits.

Jean is still, entirely too still, muscles held taut and almost aching. Part of him thinks, only briefly, an intrusive thought shut down as soon as it appears: _is this what death is like – like being still, entirely too still._ But his eyes dart around the room: over to the court door, the far wall, the player sat opposite him, downwards: he sees his fingers held stock-white and clenched around his fork, his food untouched, doesn’t feel the cool of metal against skin, only a white-hot sensation in his gut, the _thudding_ in his chest, the strain in his eyes as he flicks them up again, as they dart around the room.

Kevin is missing.

And now Riko, too.

His teammates’ glances skim over him and away again, like they’re still unsure whether they should defer to him. He’s unsure too. Says nothing, doesn’t return their stares.

Keeps glancing around the room.

A few of the others are talking in low murmurs, but more are still and quiet. Jean knows they look ridiculous; leaderless, the majority of them return to the stance Riko had whipped into them, elbows on the table, fingers locked under chin. Food untouched. At least Jean can feel it now as he looks down, the metal biting into his skin, and lets go of his fork, hears it clatter to the table, studies his hand to see a hard dent in his palm. Sighs. Feels eyes on him for that.

Kevin, missing.

And now Riko.

A small panic rises up in him and clenches in his gut. He wonders if this is what breathing feels like. Wonders: _what death –_

Jean flexes his fingers, ignoring the tightness in his chest, removes his elbows from the table, picks up his fork and starts eating.

So a few others start on their meal too.

The team opposite share bemused looks, but Jean ignores them. Inconsequential.

Kevin

And now Riko.

He wonders if he should go, too. Half of him is trying to remember any orders he should be following in their absence. Had been wondering if the Master would come over, let them know what to do next.

Jean looks over to the coaches’ table.

Tetsuji still isn’t there.

“Moreau,” Connor mutters in his ear, and Jean stills. “Master left right after Riko.” Jean nods without looking at him. “They’re probably worried about Day.” Jean nods again. “You know why he didn’t come?”

Jean shakes his head. Pushes his fork through his food. “Perhaps he forgot the time.”

A puff of air escapes Connor’s mouth, lands on Jean’s cheek. But it’s humourless. “Perhaps,” he says, a light mocking tone, and turns back to his food. His body, as it turns away, brushes shoulder to shoulder with Jean. And Jean stills.

There’s a physicality that comes with being a Raven. Jean knows. Has known for the half his life he’s been one. He knows each body intimately, better than he does his own: can tell you that Stevens goes down if you kick her just above the heel; Jenson is a swift elbow to the waist when the coaches aren’t looking; Connor. Connor, who checks him with his shoulder; who nudges his shoulder into his back as he walks past.

Jean takes his phone out then, stands abruptly. Stills when he’s upright. Every Raven looks at him at the same time, and it’s eerie, he knows, but more than that it’s familiar, dull. Irrelevant.

Jean walks away from Connor, from the Ravens, off the court and doesn’t stop until he’s in the men’s bathroom. He kicks each door, checks underneath too, touches a finger to Kevin’s contact. Holds the phone up to his ear. “Kevin,” he mutters. “Kevin, Kevin…” Fixes his gaze to a spot on the wall where white paint is peeling away; listens to the phone ring and ring and ring; click to voicemail.

“Kevin Day. Leave a message.”

“Kevin.” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say. Can practically hear his breath in his lungs, tight, unsteady. Switches to French. “ _Call me._ ” Hesitates. “ _I won’t tell him._ ” Hangs up.

Jean stays there for a few minutes, still staring at that paint. It’s so white. Almost blinding. He reaches fingers up to itch it off, scratches one hand down the wall and then turns away.

Riko is back, sat at the table. Tetsuji too. Jean walks without hesitation to his chair, and sits down.

Riko doesn’t look at him. Jean stares down at his plate. The whole table is quiet now, the opposite team too, still eating, but looking unsure at them.

Riko smashes a fist down on the table and Jean doesn’t jump, but a few of the others do. He’s used to Riko’s sounds. One room over doesn’t prevent him from hearing Riko and Kevin’s arguments.

When nothing comes, Jean picks up his fork slowly. Knows Riko will stop him if he wants to, but he thinks it breaks a sort of spell, because Riko’s head turns to watch the action. Jean lets his fork hover over his plate, waits a beat, and then Riko picks up his too, the table returning to the act of eating. Like this was ever about food, or conversation.

It was about Kevin. And Riko. Because what wasn’t.

Kevin.

Missing.

Once Riko has taken a few bites Jean says, in quiet Japanese, the switch of language easy and fluid now, though he’s still fairly sure his pronunciation is nothing to be proud of, “ _Any news?”_

Riko huffs out a laugh and says, in bright English, “About what? Kevin isn’t feeling well. What do you expect. I told him to see a doctor a week ago.” The words come, fluid and rapid; Riko, fluent in three languages: English, Japanese, and lies. “The Master put him on bedrest. It’s just a case of the Kevin-flu, honestly.” Riko smirks to Connor, past Jean’s head, who must have turned to listen. “Tissues and his terrible music and he will be back on the court in a week.”

Jean looks away.

“Good,” Connor says, short and to the point. “We need him for winter break practices.” Connor, a striker and a freshman, shoulder no longer brushing against Jean’s now that Riko is back, a few inches lingering between them, an absolute saint for Kevin. “Kevin’s been teaching me how to score from a rebound.”

Riko smirks. “Oh,” he says, amused and scornful. “Don’t worry, I can teach you that. Cute, that Kevin was starting you on that. Next practice,” he adds, returning to his food.

Jean can feel Connor tense a little next to him, like he realises the mistake he’s made. Quickly, he gets out, “Thank you, Riko,” and drops his eyes to his plate.

Jean pulls his phone out of his pocket when Riko is turned away to tell the others how amusing Kevin being sick is, how he can teach them rebound shots too. Opens his messages from Kevin. Not that there are any. Types out _Where are you_

**2**

“He’s gone?” Jean keeps his eyes focused on Tetsuji’s shoulders, in his peripheral vision can see the Master tensing, focus darting to Jean.

“Did I ask you to speak?”

Jean looks at the ground. Tightens his fingers into each other at his back.

“Kevin’s accident was unfortunate. It is a blow to our team. I had spoken with Kevin about staying on to assistant coach.”

Jean is listening, knew roughly what speech had been coming, but he wants to look round. He wants to check. He wants to know where Riko is.

Alistair and Connor are still, silent, taut bodies at his side. He zeroes in on their breaths, takes a deep one of his own, then tries to match theirs.

“However, Kevin has chosen to leave. For now, he has gone to Palmetto State.”

Even Connor’s head shoots up at that. Jean is staring at a scuff mark on the court floor. The cleaners hadn’t got it. He wants to –

“What?”

“Are you kidding?”

“The _Foxes_? They’re atrocious –”

Tetsuji’s hand lifts, and the voices quieten. Connor murmurs, “Jesus,” and Jean nods a little in his direction.

“The press are going to have questions. We will email you the answers. I suggest you use them. Anything else?”

Jean finally raises his head, stares at a spot behind Tetsuji’s head. “Where’s Riko?”

The Master glares at him. Or just looks at him. It’s hard to tell. Tetsuji was so used to looking at Jean like he was nothing, like he was something to be glared at, and Jean is so used to being looked at like that, maybe this is just a normal look. He says, “Riko has made the decision to step back from the game.”

There are no murmurs this time. 30 bodies held still, attent, careful. No one is even breathing.

“Until the press around Kevin dies down.” Tetsuji half-turns to the court door and barks, “Any other questions?” like if there were he’d probably beat them half to death.

No one utters a word.

He’s nearly reached the court door, Alistair flexing a hand at his side, Jean half-turned to say something to him, when Tetsuji’s voice rings out, “Moreau, follow me.”

Jean stands just inside the door, hands clasped behind his back, trains his eyes on Tetsuji’s desk. Waits. Breathes in. Stills.

Tetsuji shuts the door, walks around the desk, sits down. Sighs.

Jean breathes out.

“I know you were there.”

Jean says nothing.

“You know what happened.”

Jean tenses his face. Considers. _Know what happened_ is not the same thing as _let this happen_ or _helped Riko to_ – so he nods. Once. Tight.

Tetsuji nods too. “It cannot happen again. I’ve had phone calls from the president, the board, the press. The ECC. We have fed them the story but I do not want this to happen again.”

He pauses, so Jean says, “Yes, Master.”

Tetsuji pauses too, like he’s assessing the strength of Jean’s submission. Jean doesn’t move. He does not move. He does not move his hands, his fingers, set in place behind his back and still, does not move his gaze, barely breathes. Tetsuji says, “Riko needs to be reined in. He cannot be allowed to be out of control. Do you understand.”

Jean doesn’t. He doesn’t understand and he feels the muscles on his face straining to frown, to tighten, to ask _what do you want me to do_ , to ask _how far do you want me to go,_ but he doesn’t. He can’t. He just says, “Yes, Master,” the words still ringing in his ears hours later.

Riko isn’t at afternoon practise. Isn’t at dinner.

In the cafeteria Alistair says, “Fucking hell,” the second he sits across from Jean, Connor quick to sit next to him. They both have full plates, identical meals down to the number of broccoli heads.

The same as Jean. The same as Micky. But Jean can’t stand to eat.

He feels like he’s lost both of them.

He has no idea how he feels about that.

“Moreau you look like death.”

“Thank you,” says Jean, picking up a fork to prod his food with.

Connor says, “We’re running a betting pool, see how long it is before Day returns with his tail between his legs.”

Alistair laughs, low, quiet, all habit at this point, “I bet he’s back by the start of semester.”

Jean looks up to see Connor grinning. “Bethan thinks he’ll be here by New Year’s Eve.”

Micky, next to him, is quiet when he says, “You think he’ll come back?”

Alistair moves to speak, but Jean cuts in. “No,” he says sharply, everything sharp and he doesn’t know how to calm the feeling in his chest and he bites out, “he won’t come back.”

Connor raises a calm eyebrow. “How do you know?” he asks, all southern drawl, all easy unworried expression.

Jean hates them.

“I know.”

“So put your money where your mouth is,” Alistair says, his expression amused, the words cutting into Jean’s skin.

Asshole.

Jean says, “I would love to, but betting is a poor man’s game.”

“Yeh,” Connor mutters, smirking at Alistair, “you’d know all about that though wouldn’t you Moreau?”

Jean stands from the table, dumps his tray on the racks, and leaves the dining hall.

He has one hour free. In the schedule. One hour is what he gets, every day. Probably a result of some health advice the Master had received, to let dinner settle or something. It is Jean’s favourite, and least favourite, part of the day. He always feels too itchy to enjoy it, hates the way his thoughts always threaten to catch up to him, too still and silent and nothing enough of a distraction.

Sometimes he finds himself on the court, flinging balls at the wall until the whole court echoes with dull thuds, drowning the dying words in his head.

Sometimes he sits with some of the others in the common room, an exy game on in the background, or some American comedy he pretends to find funny. Not that Jean ever laughs. But they’re used to that.

Sometimes he gets started on work early. An hour after dinner was one of their academic slots of the day. Most people take their hour break between dinner and college work seriously. Tetsuji is usually on campus, having a meeting or going for a walk or doing who the hell knew what. Even when it’s dark, even when they’re on sixteen hour days over break which means campus is experiencing middle-of-the-night calm or chaos or whatever the fuck normal college life means.

That one hour break is usually when Jean avoids the dorms.

He sits down on the couch as Micky sniggers. Jean doesn’t have to ask. Micky’s mouth always runs away from him. “Guess who’s missing tonight?” he asks. Jean shrugs, staring at the blinding white of the television. “Ian and Kyle.”

Jean does turn at that. “Really,” he says.

“Yep.” Micky looks smug, like he’s won a bet or something.

“Maybe they’re on the court,” Jean says, feeling something sick settle in his stomach.

Micky shakes his head. “Connor checked already.”

Jean nods. Of course he has.

30 players should feel like a family, but sometimes it feels like death – like claustrophobia; like one sprawling basement and 30 people trapped together in hell; and sometimes sex is the only real escape.

Jean says idly, eyes on the television screen, “It’s been added to the board?”

Micky says, “Yup,” all excited, grinning at Jean and clapping a hand down on his sore shoulder.

Jean doesn’t wince. Everywhere is sore. Everywhere is always sore, all the time.

He says, “Did anyone win?”

Micky says, “Why do you think I look so happy?”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “You bet on Ian and Kyle?”

Micky leans into Jean’s space and lowers his voice, “I heard them once. In the showers. They thought everyone had left.”

Jean is surprised at that. So it isn’t a one-off.

He shakes his head and turns away. Forces himself to say, “Disgusting,” like he thinks it is, but Micky just laughs and claps him hard on the knee, lets it linger a little before sliding away.

Jean’s heart increases but he says nothing.

It has been a long time since he’s been added to the board. He tells himself he doesn’t need it. And anyway his mind is tumbling ahead of him, feels like it has been racing all day.

A movie has been stuck on, a dozen people crammed into the too small common room, Micky shoved against his thigh. A while later he says, “You seen Riko?” any previous amusement drained from his face.

Jean shakes his head. “No.”

Micky sips at his water bottle. “No. Me neither. All day. The Master will be pissed.”

“The Master does not get annoyed with Riko,” says Jean, remembering his words from earlier. Wondering if he should – he knows he shouldn’t tell anyone. He lowers his voice, his eyes, picks at a fraying thread on his sweatpants. “He wants me to do something.”

Micky lowers his voice too, flicks a glance at Jean and leans towards him. “About Riko? Like what?”

Jean breathes in deep, too deep, holds it in, wills _begs_ his heartbeat to calm down, says, “I don’t know. I think he wants me to rein him in.”

Micky stills at that. “Are you sure?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

Jean shakes his head and Micky lets out a breath, a tight “ _Shit,”_ relaxes his shoulders against Jean’s. Jean leans into him a little.

“You probably should have asked.”

“I know.”

“How far will you go?”

Jean can feel Micky’s eyes on his face. Says, “As far as he lets me.”

Then Alistair and Connor are there, turning away from where the board of shame is pinned to the wall, Connor laughing at something Alistair has said. Alistair scoffs, “Fucking fags,” and Connor grins at Jean, and Jean looks back at the television, and feels Micky’s heat drift an inch away.

Jean and Micky go back to their dorm, get their homework out, sit at opposite desks and work. But Jean can barely concentrate.

Micky can’t either, apparently. Keeps saying stupid things like, “What are you going to do?” until Jean throws an apple at his head. Micky is quieter after that.

Until lights out, when Micky isn’t quiet anymore.

Jean steps out of their ensuite bathroom and Micky is just standing there, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low.

He says, “Moreau,” raking his body with a _look_ , and Jean frowns at him.

“No,” he says, pushing past him.

“Come on man,” Micky says, all quiet and desperate, catching Jean’s arm and pulling him against him. “It’s been ages.”

Jeans says, “Fuck off Micky.”

But Micky’s hand is rubbing against him, pushing him into the wall, and Jean is so tired, and Micky’s face is so close, and he can hear his heartbeat thudding against his chest, his body betraying him. Jean glares at him, then kisses him, fucking furious.

“Yes,” Micky breathes against him, so Jean licks in his mouth, turns round and rams Micky into the wall, pushes his sweatpants down, and takes him into his hand.

It doesn’t take long. A few minutes later Micky is panting, grinning, kissing Jean’s cheek before Jean pushes him away. “Ok?”

“Yeh man, fuck,” says Micky, pushing blond curls out of his forehead. Jean looks away, feels his own arousal uncomfortable and hot.

Micky moves towards him but Jean snaps, “No.”

Micky holds up his hands. “Ok ok, whatever man, if you want to be uncomfortable as all hell that’s up to you.” Jean glares at him. Micky winks and heads into the bathroom.

Jean changes into pyjama pants, gets into bed, stares at the ceiling.

Riko and Kevin’s dorm is one down from theirs. Riko’s dorm now, he thinks.

He hasn’t felt Riko’s heavy hands on him in days. Not since before Kevin.

He closes his eyes. Inside, he is screaming.

Kevin is gone.

He knows, somewhere inside of him had always known, that if any of them were to escape it would be Kevin. The golden boy. Tetsuji’s favourite. Exy’s favourite. Riko’s fucking world.

He always knew if one of them could escape, it would have been Kevin.

Micky comes back in and Jean opens his eyes. Stares at the ceiling. Hears Micky move around, get ready for bed. Keeps his eyes trained upwards even as the lights are switched off. As Micky gets into bed. As the heavy sound of his breathing fills the room.

Knew that of all of them, it would have been Kevin.

But he never thought he would actually go.

As darkness presses into his eyes, he lets himself think about it. Wonders if Kevin ever thinks about death. Supposes, in a way, Kevin is dead now. Wonders why he left. He knows what the catalyst was. Hears the shatter of bone reverberate around his skull. But that’s not the same as choosing to leave.

He doesn’t want this nightmare tonight.

He grabs his phone and grabs a hoody and his shoes and treads quietly out the dorm.

The only windows are in the court, above the dorms, so he makes his way up there, to the visitor’s lounge, sits underneath one of the large, sprawling windows, moonlight a comfort on the back of his head.

He looks at his phone. Touches one finger to Kevin’s contact. Holds it to his ear. It’s midnight but even if it wasn’t he knows the phone would still ring and ring and ring.

“Kevin Day. Leave a message.”

“Kevin.” Jean thinks his voice sounds choked. So he stops, pulls the phone away from his face. Frowns and clears his throat and adjusts his position on the ground and puts the phone back to his ear. In French, he says, “ _Kevin, where the_ fuck _are you? Have you really gone to them? To him? Just call me. Call me and tell me what is going on. Call me. Call me.”_ Jean hangs up. Closes his eyes. Call me. Call me. Call

**3**

Jean knows what he has to do. Knows what Tetsuji meant, really. The thing is the Master could not have just said “Stop him”. Jean had no right, and neither did Tetsuji. Riko was a force that wasn’t supposed to be contained. He shouldn’t have had to be. As long as Riko’s violence faced inwards, as long as it was all for the game, Tetsuji wanted it. But. _It cannot happen again._

Jean watches him during practise. Watches, watches. Is used to being quiet, on the edges, waiting for cues from Riko and Kevin, waiting for silent orders that march him over to the others to pull them into line. To get pulled into line himself.

Today, Riko has that look in his eye, the one Jean recognises. Except it’s usually pointed at him. Usually appears minutes before Kevin kicks Mickey out his dorm, locks the door, eyes trained on the ground. Riko’s smile curling round his face, breath leaving Jean’s body.

But this time it’s on the court, and it’s just for the strikers.

Riko has, according to the press, taken a step back from the game. Same as Kevin. As far as Jean knows, Kevin is in Palmetto still. Still hasn’t heard anything from him. Checks his phone at night when Micky is asleep, but he hasn’t heard a word. Not a _fucking_ word.

According to the press Riko has taken a step back too: from the matches, sure. But here he is, on court with them, captain’s authority clinging to him like the sweat running down his jersey. They haven’t picked a replacement vice-captain yet. Jean knows it won’t be him. That’s not his place. The hole Kevin left is a visible thing, in the way the team are holding themselves back, the way Riko is throwing himself around, like he can fill the gap, and Jean still doesn’t know where he sits in the hierarchy. No one does, and he can feel the question hanging in the air every time they step on court. But he doesn’t really care. Isn’t sure he has the capacity for care any more.

And he certainly doesn’t have it in him to feel sorry for the freshmen. Wishes he could feel anything but detachment as Riko runs them through the drill, passing to himself by bouncing the ball hard and fast at the far wall, strikes it into the net on rebound, surpassing the goalie by several feet. Riko’s grin is blinding even through his helmet, even across the court.

And then it’s Connor’s turn.

It’s his fifth turn, in fact. And Jean was sure he’d got it at least a couple of times last week.

Today’s just not his day.

On his sixth failure to catch the ball at the right angle after the rebound, Riko walks up to him, drags his helmet off, and smacks him to the ground.

The sharp _slap_ of Riko’s hand against the side of Connor’s head; the after-echo of his reverberating yell; the sound of Connor’s body thudding against the ground: it all echoes around the court. Bounces off glass.

But Connor is silent, and so is everyone else, so after a second it’s Jean who strides forward, grabs Connor’s arm and drags him to his feet. “Get up,” Jean says, even as he helps by hauling Connor upright. Connor places one hand on the side of his face, looks at the ground.

Riko snaps, “Get your act together or we can find you a team where you’ll never have a chance of making it. Ok?”

Connor nods and Riko throws his helmet at him. Connor catches it, Riko storms off.

Jean leaves his hand on Connor one second longer, then turns to follow Riko.

At dinner Micky says, “Jean, it’s been over a month. When are you going to – that thing with Riko –”

And Jean elbows him as he sits down. “Quiet.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

But Connor and Alistair sit opposite them a second later, and Jean stares at his food.

Alistair says, “Moreau,” and Jean looks up. Carefully doesn’t look at Connor who has an ugly bruise down one side of his face, directing his hardened expression down at his plate. Alistair’s expression is bland, lacking its usual mocking tone, when he says, “You’re a killer at those rebound shots. Maybe you can –”

“Maybe if you two actually listened to Riko, you would get it faster,” Jean says, hand clenching around his fork. Next to him Micky has stopped eating, body still but head tilted to glance around the room.

Alistair frowns at him. “Day said –”

So Jean raises his voice. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Kevin Day isn’t here. He left us. Riko is. You might want to start paying attention to how things work around here.”

Alistair’s frown deepens, and he takes a breath as if to continue, so Jean kicks him in the shin.

They’re quiet after that, so Jean steadily allows breath into his body in even pieces. Looking at his food makes him feel sick, but he can almost _feel_ Riko walking over to them, a sort of forced laughter spreading around the room, so he shovels in a mouthful of pasta.

A hand claps down hard on his shoulder, and he doesn’t react. “Riko,” he says, swallowing and half-turning. “Hello.”

Riko is smiling. He’s always smiling these days. Jean thinks this is worse than when he wasn’t: he’s used to reading Riko’s expressions, has become a master in them over the last decade; can’t read violence through a plastered on smile. “Oh I heard a little rumour, Itoko.” Riko’s fingers dig in to muscle. “Tetsuji said you wanted to talk to me.”

Jean nods, turns back to his plate. “I did.”

Riko waves a hand and Alistair and Connor shuffle down to make room. Sitting opposite, Riko leans his smile into Jean’s face. “Why is the Master passing on love notes for you?”

Jean forces himself to meet Riko’s expression. Can’t find himself caring about the way Micky has tensed against him. Jean thinks, and forces out, “He suggested I ask you to take Kevin’s place for our night practises.”

“Ah,” Riko says, grin broadening, a glimmer in his eyes. “Missing Kevin? Sure there’s room for me in whatever the fuck that was?”

Jean can feel the weight of his phone, silent, heavy, against his thigh; can feel the nervous warmth of Micky’s leg against the other.

Says, “I was always going to ask you to take over eventually. Kevin was just trying to get me up to speed.”

Riko looks amused. Isn’t totally oblivious to manipulation, to being charmed. But he isn’t totally immune to it either. “You think you’re up to _my_ speed?” Beside him Alistair and Connor laugh as the innuendo curls into Jean’s gut.

He shakes his head. “Of course not. That’s why I haven’t asked yet.”

“Hmm.” Riko flicks a glance over to Micky. “You hear that, Costa? You get to keep him a little while longer.” Micky looks down at his plate, and Alistair and Connor’s laughter follows Riko to his feet. “I will teach you, Itoko. I can’t promise you will enjoy it.”

Jean nods. “Thank you.”

Riko cuffs him over the head as he leaves, but it’s gentle, almost passing as affection to anyone else.

Alistair and Connor look happy again, Alistair elbowing Connor in victory, like some sort of order has been restored, like they think they’re safe now that they’ve laughed at Riko’s jokes, now that his attention was directed at someone else. Alistair lifts his chin and says to Micky. “You gonna _prep_ Moreau for the Captain then, eh fag?” Connor bursts out laughing, slams his hand on the table, and Alistair has a stupid grin on his face. Jean wants to spit the gesture back at them. _You’re welcome, assholes._

Micky, to his credit, says nothing, eats his food, as if unaffected, until the assbros finish up and the bell rings and everyone in the dining hall starts to head to the common room, to their dorms, to wherever, and it’s only then that he starts to say, “Jean –”

But Jean just stands and leaves.

He goes to the fire exit, slams his elbow into the bar, and pushes his way outside.

He’s not allowed out of the nest without Micky. If anyone finds him he’ll be punished. But he doesn’t care.

Jean’s fingers twitch for a cigarette. Sometimes one of the other guys has one. He’s not addicted. Could just do with a rush of feeling right now. A cigarette, or –

Instead he walks round the side of the building, close to the wall, avoiding CCTV cameras where he can. If he’s lucky no one’s monitoring them at this time in the evening anyway. For a moment he has a thought, quick and blinding, like: _death feels like sticking to the shadows, like skirting the line of sight._ Feels briefly blindingly alone. But he slinks down the wall by the garbage bins. Feels rough, chilly concrete under his ass, hard brick against his back, sinks into it and clenches his eyes shut. With one hand he gets out his phone, turns it on, waits for it to power up and opens his eyes to stare at the darkening sky.

A minute later, he says into the phone, “So I take it you are not planning to call me back?”

Silent, of course, the way a voicemail service usually is.

Jean stretches out his legs. Regards a piece of dust on his knee and flicks it off. Says, “Palmetto, Kevin? Seriously? You ran straight from Tetsuji to _Wymack_?” He leans his head back against the wall. “Fils à papa. What are you even going to do down there, play? You can’t –” but he stops, because going down this road brings fresh to his mind the way Kevin’s hand had twisted, the agony clear on his face, the way his eyes had shot to Jean a second later, buried in pain, as if to say _Jean_ , as if Jean wasn’t silently screaming back, _you would have done the same_ , one hand twisting round Kevin’s arm where he held it against his back, Riko a quiet fury before them.

“Southern Carolina won’t suit you, le jour. I hear they have sunlight down there. Don’t forget where you came from. Won’t the black walls haunt you in your sleep? I hope they do. I hope it chokes you. I hope you dream of that day you came into my room, standing in front of my door, head turned while Riko – I hope the sounds _choke_ you. I hope you wake up in the middle of the night begging to not be able to see. I hope in your dreams your hand breaks again, and again. I would break your other hand if I could. I hope –” but Kevin’s voicemail clicks off.

Jean walks into his dorm room to the sight of Micky, curled up in one cornor of his bed, a book in one hand, a spreading bruise over his eye. Jean slams the door behind him. Micky looks up, and replies to his silent anger: “Connor. Said I looked at him faggy.” Micky tries to smile, but it doesn’t really work.

Jean strides forward, takes the book out of Micky’s hand, and kisses him. He climbs over his body, kisses him, works a hand between them, when Micky gasps just says, “This isn’t for you,”

And Micky says, “I know.”

**4**

When semester starts up again, there’s a news story. It’s everywhere, on every sports network, even makes it into the sports section of the regular news. It’s played on the screens during breakfast, on clips on people’s phones in between classes, the same recorded words filtering out of Tetsuji’s office when they turn up to practise.

Former Raven and pro athlete Kevin Day, following a serious injury to his hand, has been made assistant coach for the Palmetto State University’s exy team, the –

“The _Foxes_?” Jessica says, a grin on her face. “Is he serious?”

A few people mutter, changing in the locker room, but Jean is already changed. Has been, for an hour. Skipped lunch and stood, scalding, underneath the beating water, hands clenched tight and contained against the shower wall. Contained. Like his thoughts. Like the blank face he directed at Micky when he’d banged into the locker room half an hour ago, _Don’t fuck around Jean you could get us both beaten,_ furious to have been left behind.

The older teammates are anxious too. They don’t speak to him. They change, quiet and quick, while the freshmen gossip, Jessica rolling her eyes and then laughing while Alistair does his best impression of Assistant Coach Kevin Day, _None of you will ever be as good as me, but you will try tirelessly,_ wagging his hand and then screwing his face up in pain and holding it to his chest, wailing like a baby. A few of the freshmen laugh. But everyone else settles on benches around room. They don’t speak to Jean, but then they never do. There’s a reason he’s been partnered with a freshman, why he was given Connor and Alistair to mind. They weren’t there, before, to see how Riko treated him before he was really a Raven. The older ones like to remind him sometimes. These days they’re quiet around him, not like they’re about to chuck him into a trash can, but like they’re still waiting to see whether Riko will.

When Riko finally arrives, the sound from Tetsuji’s office shuts off. He doesn’t come out though, and the room falls into a respectful hush. Riko’s face is ashen, his jaw set, as he strips down completely, picks through his locker, changes again, brazen and bare in front of 30 people, daring anyone to challenge him.

Once he’s dressed, he turns, and crosses his arms. Looks to each of them. Says, quietly, “Did anyone see the news?”

No one speaks. Riko waits a second and then bursts out laughing. “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” he says finally, wiping an imaginary tear away from his eyes. “Sweet child. He really thinks he can just do this to us?” He’s grinning, and zeroes in on a sophomore, one of Jean’s peers. Adam sits up, straight backed. Riko repeats, slow, “He really thinks he can just do this to us?”

“He can try,” Adam says, no humour in his tone, doesn’t even move.

Riko grins. “That he can, Jones. That he can. Who else.” He looks around the room, calls out to Richard Rimmens, one of the older boys, “Hey, Rimmer, why do you think Kevin thinks he’ll get away with this?”

“He’s a coward,” Richard calls back, and a couple of his friends hoot and nudge him in approval.

Riko nods. “Astute observation. Collins, how many women do you think have actually been pleased at the sight of Kevin’s dick?”

“We including Moreau?”

Almost everyone laughs at that. Almost everyone. Jean doesn’t feel, watches all this as if from above, as usual, prepares a response in his head to this exercise in case Riko calls on him. But next to him, Micky doesn’t laugh. Has gone deathly still, and it’s stupid. Pointless. And Jean wants to reach out a hand, his knee, hit him, hide him from view, tell the fucking idiot to at least _smile_ –

“Costa.” Riko is standing in front of Micky now, head tilted like he’s assessing his prey. “You didn’t think that was funny? Standing up for your boyfriend here?”

A few people chuckle. Jean is looking straight ahead, at the opposite row of black and red lockers. Next to him, Micky says, “It was funny.”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“ _It’s ’cause he’s a fucking fag,_ ” someone calls.

Jean can feel Micky shrug, an inch away. “I guess I’m just not really a laugh out loud kind of guy.”

“Interesting,” says Riko.

And then he reaches out a hand and drags Micky by his hair to the ground.

The thing is, it’s been too long. A few weeks since Riko had slapped Connor to the floor of the court. Over a month since he’d broken Kevin’s hand. A few months since he’d entered Jean’s room last. If the wild look in Riko’s expression is anything to go by, he’s been waiting for an excuse for weeks. And Jean can’t stop it.

On the ground, Micky holds up a hand, as if that will protect himself. Riko says, “Kevin Day is a cowardly piece of shit. He ran from us, his _family_ , and he won’t get far. Will he?”

A chorus of pack mentality _no_ s echo around the room.

Riko kicks Micky in the gut, once, hard. Once more after he’s curled up in a ball.

Richard and Connor and the rest of the assbros laugh, half of them bent over as if this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Most of the others are smiling at least. No one dares look away.

Jean doesn’t care about any of this. But he can almost hear Tetsuji listening from his office. And he’d been given an order.

So he says, loudly, “We’ll drag the faggot back if we have to,” and woofs into the startled space in the room. It works, the others start woofing, and cawing, and hollering, and then banging on the metal of the lockers, and stomping on the floor, and Jean stands and walks briskly to the court, knowing he’ll be followed, and on his way out he puts a hand on the shoulder of Eliot, a fifth year, and they make eye contact, and Eliot nods and shouts that he’s forgotten something in his locker, and Jean breathes out, knowing he can leave Micky gasping and sobbing on the floor.

Jean doesn’t see Eliot again until dinner, and he leans in, as if inspecting the pasta option, and Eliot mumbles, “He’s in the medical suite. He’s ok.” Jean doesn’t acknowledge him, walks past as if Eliot is a stain he has to endure. In some ways he is. All the fifth years are. They’ll be out soon.

When he’s finished eating – an unfilled space to his side and Alistair and Connor opposite him, for once reading the lines in Jean’s body correctly and shutting up – Jean goes up to Riko’s table, where he’s sat with his own unfilled space, and Richard and Hakan, and Aideen and Charlie, all the people Jean hates the most. Jean shoves his hands in his pockets and stands next to Riko, silent until Riko looks up at him.

He eats for a few beats longer, amused smile on his face, his cronies grinning at each other. When he finally looks up, faux surprised, he says, “Oh, Itoko, I didn’t see you there.”

“Riko.”

“We’re in a public space, Moreau,” says Richard, grinning at him. “If you’re here to defend your girlfriend –”

“Wait, which one again?” says Charlie, and they all laugh. Riko is just smiling, forks a piece of spinach, chews on it delicately while he waits for Jean to speak.

Jean just nods. _Sure. Ok._ “Night practise. I’m ready.”

Riko nods too, like they’re having a conversation. “Great. But, just so we’re clear –” Riko waggles a finger to motion him closer. Jean doesn’t move. Riko leans on his elbow and stage whispers, “I’m not fucking you.”

His friends laugh, not so much because it’s a funny joke, but because at this point it’s routine, and Jean understands that. He smiles back and says, “You couldn’t.” They stop laughing, probably aren’t entirely sure whether Jean means that as a joke, a threat. Is it meant to be gay or. Jean half-turns away and says, “Not tonight though. Tomorrow. I have to go get Micky from the medical suite.”

Riko purses his lips. “Ok Moreau. Tomorrow. We’ll see what shape Kevin left you in.”

Jean leaves before Richard can fill them all in on his speculations.

They have a few team physicians, but it’s Akio who leads Jean to the bed where Micky is sleeping. He looks young like this, golden hair spilling over his face, one hand resting over a bruised stomach. Jean looks away, shoves him in the shoulder. Micky sits up with a gasp, and then groans, half leans back on one elbow. When Jean looks back Micky is assessing him. “Jean,” he says.

“Can you walk?”

Micky just looks at him for a minute, and then shrugs, swings his legs out of bed and stands, grimacing whenever the muscles in his stomach clench. They walk back to the dorm slowly, Jean silent and steady at his side, keeping his eyes to the ground, fists clenching and unclenching in his pockets. At the door Jean hovers while Micky goes into the bathroom, takes off his jersey, winces as he runs cautious hands down his side, over bandages that Jean doesn’t think are doing anything particularly helpful. He watches all this through the bathroom door, one hand still round the edge of the door to their room.

Micky meets his eye in the mirror, and stills his movements. Then he starts pushing down his shorts. “I’m gonna shower.”

Jean nods, waits until Micky is stripped and in the shower before he leaves the room, wishing he could lock it behind him. Hovers, for a minute. Shoves his hand in his pockets and fiddles with his keys, his phone. He’s not allowed to lock his dorm room. Not allowed to make personal calls. Not allowed to go anywhere without Micky. Not allowed to leave the Nest. Not allowed to miss Kevin. Not allowed to hate him. Not allowed to be anything but straight. Not allowed to want anything that isn’t Riko.

Jean imagines punching the wall, just once, imagines wallpaper spreading beneath split knuckles, imagines a hint of blood and a rush of pain, curls it tight into himself.

Imagines, in death, split knuckles over and over and over and over and over and over and

And then turns and walks up the length of the hallway.

There’s a stairwell, that no one really uses. A back route to the top row of seats on the court that he thinks the cleaners use. There’s a cupboard in here with cleaning supplies. He knows, because he found bleach in there once, had picked it out of the cupboard, stared at it with a pounding heart and black paint in his mind, before hearing someone coming and putting it back.

Now, he doesn’t go for the bleach. He lets the door swing shut behind him, takes his phone out and imagines throwing it against the wall, imagines it splintering into pieces against grimy paint, imagines the echoes the smashed pieces falling to the floor would make bouncing up the stairwell.

Instead he calls Kevin.

Doesn’t bother lowering his voice.

He spits into the phone, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What he’s going to become? Of course you do. I know you do. You’ve been here. You’ve been here, with me, with us, for years, and now you can think you can just leave us? What do you think is going to happen?” Jean pauses, and laughs, is almost pleased to hear the sound bounce up the stairwell the way he’d imagined. “Ah, but I’m being ridiculous. The great Kevin Day, and now assistant coach for the worst fucking team in class 1 exy – doesn’t think about anything except the game. Of course, of course. Me too. I’ve asked Riko to take over night practise. How do you think that’s going to go, le jour?”

Jean puts one hand on the door to the cupboard, flattens his palm against it, then tightens, and slams his body backwards, wrenching the door away so that it pulls out some of its hinges. He slams it shut again, and the door bounces, hanging off at an angle.

Jean closes his eyes, and breathes heavily into the phone, feeling rage _flood_ his body in a way he hasn’t let it for a while, in French hurls into the phone, “ _He hurt Micky. And Tetsuji gave me an order. So now I have to take your place. I have to be you. I have to be you, you... You left. Someone has to.”_

When Jean finally returns to the dorm, Micky is asleep on his back, one arm hanging over the top of the covers, only one arm and the top of his chest visible, soft and rising gently in the dark. Jean, phone clutched in one hand, closes the door behind him, slides down it, and sits on the floor, and closes his eyes.

**5**

Jean wakes slowly, like the physical memory of death is letting him go one claw at a time, and as the fog lifts and he hits lucidity he presses his lips together, entirely too aware, runs a hand through his hair, swallows through a dry mouth. And then remembers.

He opens his eyes, and lifts his head.

His alarm is going off, and Micky is stirring. Jean stands quickly, moves to turn his alarm off, and sits on the side of his bed.

And Micky looks at him. “You didn’t have to sleep by the door.”

Jean stiffens. And glares at the floor. And looks away and says, “I know. You better get ready, Riko won’t let you slack off today.” He grabs things from around the room, takes his time in the bathroom, and when he comes out Micky is still in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Winding a blonde curl round his finger.

“Micky.”

“I’m going.” Micky raises himself up, winces a little, and holds his hand to his stomach as he pulls himself out of bed. Jean watches him the whole time, follows him to the bathroom, stands outside the door. “You can’t do this all day,” Micky calls as he undresses, but Jean tunes him out, leans against the wall, crosses his arms. Closes his eyes and almost drifts off to the sound of running water.

Jean and Micky stick to the rules. Stick side by side. Jean doesn’t leave him except to use the bathroom. Micky rolls his eyes but ruffles his hair fondly, to which Jean responds by poking him sharply in his bad side.

He doesn’t care about this. Is even watching himself with detachment. As they walk to class. Get lunch. Get changed out for practise. Jean eyes his own locker studiously as Micky gets undressed in his peripheral vision. Micky is his partner. That’s all.

It was the same with Kevin. They watched each other. Sometimes they watched out for Riko. Sometimes they watched Riko together. Sometimes they watched each other scream.

And Kevin was his brother.

Riko, too, he supposes, shoving his day clothes into his locker and slamming it closed, aware of Micky watching him.

And tonight he’ll give Riko what he needs to survive.

And he walks onto the court, Micky at his side. Is quick to suggest they run drills that means he’ll keep the defensive dealer close, and Riko waves it off with a _whatever_ , positions people quickly into the first drill, and Micky touches a hand to Jean’s side as they get into their places, and mutters, “Jean, I’m ok,” but Jean’s head feels like it’s under water, and he doesn’t reply, clenches his hand around his stick, plants his feet on the ground.

Doesn’t take his eyes off Riko.

If Riko notices, he’s not obvious about it. If Jean checks Riko extra hard, Riko welcomes it. Shoves back, uses all his usual tricks at half a foot shorter than Jean, sending his stick into the back of Jean’s legs and across his chest. Jean pushes him to the ground at one point and rushes off before he can see the expression on his face.

This isn’t usually how practises go, and when they do Riko usually breaks something.

The next time Jean checks him Riko digs his nails into Jean’s arm and they fall down together. Riko punches Jean in the side and Jean drags his head up by the helmet and slams him into the ground, pushes away and yells for the ball.

The next time they’re close Riko grabs onto the grill of Jean’s helmet and hauls him close and doesn’t let go and spits in his face. Jean pushes him away, disgust and adrenaline fighting their way up through his body, and Riko just laughs and laughs.

Micky runs up to him as Jean is pulling off his helmet and wiping his face, and says, “Dude what’s going on? Are you ok?”

Jean grits his teeth, and snaps, “I’m fine Micky, worry about yourself,” and puts his helmet back on and runs off. Bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. Imagines his fist splitting plaster.

At 9pm they head back to the room, and Jean attaches his mouth to Micky’s neck, and Micky says, “The fuck is wrong with you today?”

At 9:30pm they lie side by side and Micky sticks on some American comedy Jean doesn’t like.

At 9:55pm Jean climbs into his own bed and Micky turns to face the wall.

At 10pm Riko opens the door without knocking.

“Hope I’m not disturbing anything?” he says, a smile on his face.

Jean stands up. “Let’s go.”

“Oh, is Costa not joining us?”

Micky turns and looks at them. “No. Have fun, boys.”

“Not too much, don’t worry.” Riko laughs, and they leave the room.

When they’re almost at the lockers Riko shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “So, where did you get to with my illustrious brother?” And when Jean doesn’t answer, says, “What drill do you want to go through tonight?”

Jean says, “Shut up.”

And Riko laughs.

They change into shorts, but Riko leaves off his jersey, his protective gear, so Jean does too.

Riko’s barely on the half court line when Jean grabs him by the shoulder, spins him round, and punches him square in the jaw.

Riko stumbles backwards, shakes his head a little, smiles at Jean. “Is this what we’re doing now?”

Jean says, “You fucking touch him again,” and throws his fist again, but this time Riko catches his arm.

He leans forward, and Jean is breathing heavily with the effort of holding Riko back, of being held back. And Riko says, “Who? Costa? Didn’t know you cared, Itoko,” and pushes Jean away from him. There’s a moment where they just look at each other, and then there’s a knife in Riko’s hand and rather than let common sense steer him away Jean throws himself forward again, grabs Riko’s wrist and clasps fingers around his neck, tries to push him to the floor, tries to squeeze Riko’s hand so that he drops the knife.

One of these things works.

They end up on the ground, arms out with the knife attached, Riko’s knee connecting to Jean’s stomach. Jean curls up instinctively but pushes away even faster, that knife the focus of his vision. Scrabbles to his feet.

“Thought I’d beaten that out of you,” Riko says, and the smile that’s been haunting his face since Kevin left has vanished, a wild disconnect in his eyes, and something settles in Jean.

“You did,” Jean snapped back. He doesn’t even care what he’s saying right now, let alone care about Micky fucking Costa. Doesn’t have the capacity to explain. So he takes a step backwards, lets his breath catch up to his body, and says, “If you need this, take it from me.”

And Riko drops the knife, and punches him in the ear.

Jean stumbles a little, clasps a hand to his ear, _ringing ringing_ , and uses his other hand to ward off Riko, grasp him by the shoulder, and kick him in the shin. Riko goes down, and Jean drops his ear and kicks him again, hard, in the side. Like Micky. And Riko rolls away and gets to his feet, barely wincing, and throws himself on Jean and they stumble to the ground. Jean bites Riko’s ear and Riko grunts, slaps the side of his face, and they push away from each other, and Jean says, “And I thought I was the gay one. Did Kevin used to do this for you?”

And then Riko has the knife again, and they’re grappling, and Jean –

Jean _feels_

Like

At least with the glint of metal in his vision, Riko’s hard face in front of his, breath pouring onto him, both covered in sweat and adrenaline

At least he can differentiate.

Knows he’s alive.

And maybe that’s why he drops his guard for just a second, and Riko gets the upper hand, and when he lands he falls on his hip, _feels_ the sharp pain splice through him, and cries out, and closes his eyes, and feels Riko crawl on top of him, and sit on his chest, ignoring the thrashing of Jean’s legs, and says, “Quiet, Itoko, this will only hurt if you want it to,” and carves words into his arms.

The next day Jean is lying in his bed, still. The only part of his body with any movement is the blood throbbing through his arms.

Micky had woken with a pained, “Jean, jesus christ,” and spends the day hovering, and returns between classes, and brings him lunch, and changes the bandages on his arms only because Jean is too tired to stop him.

Jean’s biggest break is when Micky is at the four hour practise that afternoon.

It’s when Jean gets closest to his biggest break-through.

_I am already dead._

He feels comforted; feels he has reached some sort of answer; maybe now he can stop wondering.

Realises it is lying still; swallowing black paint; wanting nothing; not caring if your eyes are open.

Micky brings him dinner in a styrofoam container, and when Jean refuses to take it, refuses to sit up, places it on the bedside table, arranges himself on the floor so he can lean against Jean’s bed, arranges a laptop so they can both see it, and sticks on a movie.

Jean isn’t looking, hadn’t been listening when Micky had described the plot, but he listens now when it is French that reaches its hands out and permeates his skin. Jean thinks he might have been crying already, but maybe Micky has just noticed, because he reaches his own hand out and locks their fingers together, and Jean holds on, and holds on, and holds on.

Later, when Micky is almost dozing off, his head lolling against the bed, Jean says, “Micky.”

“Hmm.”

“We can’t do this.”

Micky is quiet for ages. Jean counts the minutes, counts the pounding in his torn up arms, counts breaths, taps from Micky’s fingers against his palm: it’s all lost to the thought _I am already dead_ , when Micky finally says, deathly quiet, “I know. He’ll kill you.”

“He’ll kill _you_.”

“I know.”

Jean pulls his fingers away, scratching Micky’s palm gently, and pushes his hand into his pocket, and wrapping his fingers around his phone hurts, but he pulls it out and dials Kevin’s number, holds it to his face and closes his eyes as he hears Micky move around the room, shut the laptop, get ready for bed, place a glass of water by Jean’s head. Turn the lights off.

And then it’s just Jean, in his head, holding Kevin’s voice against his face.

In French, he tells the message, “ _Kevin. Don’t come back, ok? Stay with your father. Your new brothers. I saw them on the news yesterday. The little Minyards. Riko is probably furious you’re with Andrew. Good a reason as any to stay away. Maybe we can fight him on opposite sides of the court. You piss him off, I’ll let him hit me occasionally. Or at least let him try.”_ Jean is exhausted, can feel every muscle heavy against the mattress, but he opens his eyes and turns to see Micky watching him. Blonde curls pushing into his eyes. Jean says, “ _Don’t call me,_ ” and hangs up.

**+1**

_Two years later_

Jean hears the sound of the ball hitting the back of the goal like an echo in his skull; like it just won’t stop pounding, pounding, pounding. Thinks he could hear that sound for the rest of his life.

When the buzzer sounds one minute later Jean takes his helmet off, shoves his hair out his face and glances up at the scoreboard. 8-9. To the Trojans. He takes in as deep a breath as he can. Looks round to see the subs flying on, his teammates rallying around Jeremy, who scored the winning goal. Of course. Jean smiles and starts to walk over to the others.

Jeremy is half in the air when he sees Jean and wriggles to be put down. Jean stills, though not entirely, one foot twitching a little against the floor, his fingers tightening into the helmet he holds down by his side. He only has a second before Jeremy’s sun-kissed face is grinning at him, pulling him in for a hug. Jean brings his arm loosely round Jeremy’s neck, lets Jeremy squeeze him round the back, lets him shout, “Dude did you see that!”

Jean nods and pulls away. “It was a good shot.”

“Good? _Good?_ Oh my god, what will it take to impress you!” Jeremy sounds offended but he’s still grinning, so Jean just shakes his head, but then the others are there too and hands are clapping Jean’s back, one of the strikers is complimenting him on a save he made, and Jean just nods, and nods, and looks at Jeremy, and nods, then they’re being arranged to walk past the other team, Jeremy at Jean’s back, and then they’re off the court, and Jean’s still thinking about one of the moves he and another backliner made, and turns to bring it up with Jeremy, and Jeremy looks at him, and –

“Jean!”

Jean stills. And Jeremy looks behind him. They’re in the outer ring, and Jean would chalk it up to a fan, a student probably, except he recognises that voice. He frowns and turns round.

And Micky is practically hanging off the rail, smiling a little sheepishly, hand raised in an aborted wave.

Jean opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again. Looks at Jeremy. Looks back and walks up to the stand.

“Micky,” he says.

And Micky is there, and grinning at him, and looking at Jeremy.

Jeremy has followed him, and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jeremy Knox.”

Micky just nods and shakes his hand, “I know, I know, I think you’re amazing.” He glances at Jean. “I used to play with your backliner.”

“Oh, I thought I recognised you! Costa, right?” Jeremy is still shaking his hand, smiling and smiling and –

And Micky looks pleased as anything, and it’s just a little too much.

Jean looks at Jeremy, who nods, and says, “Well, I need to hit the showers. See you in a bit, Moreau. Nice to meet you Micky. Micky Costa!” He grins, as if this is funny, and walks off.

Jean looks back at Micky and crosses his arms. And uncrosses them. “I heard you transferred.”

Micky shakes his head. “Didn’t transfer. Just left the team. After Riko… yeah, I mean, you know.”

Jean nods, because he does. “You stayed at Edgar Allen?”

Micky shrugs. “My family are there. I like my major. I’ve actually made friends since quitting the team.” He gives Jean a wry smile. “You know. Actual friends. No drama, no uh… you know it’s just really normal.”

“Hmm.” Jean has no idea what to say. He says, “Right.”

“I’m in town to visit my sister, she’s had a baby.” Micky grins. “Blonde hair and everything.”

“What a surprise,” says Jean, and he smiles at Micky. And then shakes his head. “I haven’t seen you… it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” says Micky, and puts his hands in his pockets. He looks round the emptying court, back to Jean. Says, “You look really good, Jean.”

Jean fidgets, and scratches his arm, and says, “Well.”

“No,” Micky says, and then laughs, and then whistles low and hard. “Not like… I just mean you look good. Healthy. I’ve been following you online. Seems like you’re settling in ok here.”

“Yes,” says Jean, and then considers. “Yes, I think so. It’s certainly different.”

“I’m shocked. You mean captain five times winner of the Kayleigh Day Smile Award over there doesn’t remind you of Riko at all?”

Jean smiles. “It’s different.”

“Yeah, ok.” Micky taps a finger on the rail. “You talking to someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Micky says, vague, waving a hand around. “You know, about… everything. Everything that went down with the Ravens, with Riko.” He waits for Jean to speak, and when Jean doesn’t, continues, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m bringing it up. I guess it’s just – my friends don’t really get it you know. It was fucked up. Riko… I mean it’s awful, what happened to him, I guess, but I can’t bring myself to feel sad about it. You know?”

Jean nods. “I do.” But he’s done now, suddenly doesn’t want to be in this conversation. It is so good to see Micky but it hurts at the same time and all he can hear is Riko’s voice, and maybe Micky can see that he’s lost Jean’s attention, because something like a sad smile appears on his face, and Jean makes a decision and says: “I’m sorry.”

Micky frowns. “Sorry?”

“I’m…” Jean stops, and then leans across the rail and wraps his arms tentatively around Micky. And Micky is a little shorter than him, and rests his forehead against Jean’s shoulder, and hugs him back, and Jean says, “I’m just sorry, ok?”

Micky hums, and pulls away, and holds Jean for a second longer, looking him. “Ok,” he says. “Me too, you know?” He doesn’t let go until Jean nods, and then he does as well, and drops his arms, and gestures towards the exit. “Anyway, I better go. My sister’s husband is picking me up like… oh shit like now, woops. And you have your Jeremy to get back to.”

This is said with a grin, and Jean frowns. “He’s not mine.”

“Sure, sure.”

“He _isn’t_. It’s not like that here.”

Micky had half-turned to go, wrapping a scarf around his head, but he pauses, looks back at Jean. “Not like what?” Jean closes up, almost feels it like a dam, like a puddle of water that could turn into a current. He looks away. “Jean. Seriously. You should talk to someone. I have a therapist now. It’s _insane_. The amount of shit… you just have no idea. Seriously.” Jean watches as the last people trickle out the top door of the stands, and hears Micky sigh, heavy and dramatic. “Fine, whatever. Trust me though. He likes you.”

Jean does look at him then. “What are you talking about?”

“Jeremy! He thinks we’re a thing,” Micky winks. “You can tell him we’re not. I give you permission.”

Jean frowns. “Generous.”

And Micky laughs, and holds out his hand, and they shake, and it’s a little awkward and a little sweet and – then he’s gone, and –

Jean stands there for a few minutes, trying to sort through – anything.

Micky Costa.

He turns and heads through the exit, makes his way to the locker room. Most of the others are in the showers, so he undresses, shoves his things in the locker, in the laundry baskets, grabs his towel, makes his way to the shower and it isn’t until his head is under hot pounding water that he lets himself remember what it was like to feel someone’s lips against his.

What it was like to feel the scratch of knives against his arm.

He finds himself sitting on a bench when Jeremy appears, a look of concern on his face. “Jean?”

“Hmm.”

“Are… you coming?”

Jean looks up, and looks around the room. The coaches have left. Everyone’s left. Everyone’s left and Jean looks down and doesn’t know where he is.

Jeremy lowers himself to the bench across from him. “Um… are you ok?”

“Hmm.”

“No offence but I am unconvinced.” Jeremy pauses. “You’re shaking.”

Jean looks down at his arms, at the raised lines on his forearms, and clasps a hand over them. They’re not shaking. They’re just blurry. He says, “ _Flou_.”

“O-k… um, should I get the nurse?” Jean shakes his head. Thinks if he concentrates on his arm it will stop soon. The shaking. Or the blurring. Or Riko. “Jean. Talk to me.”

Jean shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… I’m ok.”

“I remain unconvinced, but sure.” Jeremy lifts his legs onto the bench, crosses them underneath him. Props his chin up on one hand. Jean watches this movement and then lifts his eyes to Jeremy’s. Jeremy grins, a little forced, and says, “So. Micky Costa, huh?”

Jean blinks a couple of times. Looks back down at his arm. “What about him.”

“I dunno.” A pause. “Seems like you might have been a thing.”

“Hmm.” Jean looks back at him. Jeremy’s eyes are so bright and warm and Jean feels a little lost in them sometimes, and in this moment it seems like they’re begging honesty, so he says, “We are not. A thing. I haven’t seen Micky since Edgar Allen. We –” he pauses. Doesn’t look away from Jeremy but tightens his grip on his arm, scars like callouses under his fingers. “We were not a thing there either.”

Jeremy waits, as if he’s expecting more, but then just shrugs, and smiles. “Ok.” He looks away, and then looks back at Jean, and then gathers his knees up and rests his chin on them, and then looks around the room, and starts whistling a tune.

Which is something he just does. Sometimes.

Tapping his foot, whistling some tune Jean has never heard, eyes flitting around the room restlessly.

Just, here.

Waiting.

And Jean listens, and finds his breathing evening out, his fingers loosening their grip, and he loosens his body back against the metal of the locker, and closes his eyes, and just listens.

Time passes, maybe, and the tune stops, and Jean opens his eyes.

Jeremy is cross-legged again, and smiling, hands loose and open in his lap, and says, “Better?”

And Jean nods. “Better.”

“Ok.” Jeremy stands up, and holds out a hand. “We got celebrating to do.”

They do. Celebrate. A win for the Trojans means stuffing themselves into the girls’ rooms – because they have the best rooms – and listening to Laila’s bad music – because she has the best speakers – and drinking alcohol that makes Jean wince, and close bodies that don’t usually remind him of the nest, they don’t, because he’s safe here, because close bodies at the nest never meant anything but violence, but he’s safe here, and his friends are dancing near him, and someone falls into him, and Jeremy clasps him on the shoulder, and Jean breathes in, rugged and awful, and Jeremy yells over the music, “Let’s take a break.”

Outside, on the concrete under the tree, they sit, and already the cool beneath him is steadying him, and he lays his palms flat against the ground, and gives Jeremy a look.

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t babysit me anymore.”

Jeremy raises his eyebrows and looks away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Jean looks down at his splayed fingers, drags his nails a little against the concrete. They’re quiet for a few minutes, and Jean says, “You can go back inside, if you want.”

“I’m ok here.”

And Jeremy is very close, but Jean thinks if he looks up he’ll lose his nerve, so he brings one hand into his lap, leaves the other scratching against concrete, and says, “Micky was my partner, at the nest. We roomed together. Sometimes we slept together. So, he may have been more than that, but the nest was not a very tolerant environment. Riko… I think Riko would have hurt him, if he’d found out, and I couldn’t let that happen. So. It wasn’t much. But he was probably my closest friend. I haven’t seen him since I left.”

Jeremy is quiet for a while, and Jean doesn’t want this to be sad, so he looks up at Jeremy, intending to smile at him, but Jeremy looks _so_ – something – so – that Jean just falters. “What?”

“Jean, you…” Jeremy’s frown deepens, his eyes boring into Jean’s, and he shakes his head. “You _asshole_.”

Jean is alarmed. “What?” he says again, concerned. 

“I don’t know if you saw my winning shot,” Jeremy says with a maudlin sigh, “but it was _pretty good_ , yeah, and I’m _quite drunk right now_ , and I’m trying to be a really good friend here but you are bumming me out.”

Jean is surprised into nothing, and then he’s surprised into laughter. Laughing is not a thing he does easily, but it’s a thing that happens to him sometimes, something he finds happening to him more and more. Around Jeremy, particularly. Jeremy is grinning at him, and Jean says, “You are…” but he’s not sure what.

“A really good friend?” Jeremy repeats, lifting his knees and wrapping his arms around them.

Jean shrugs, as if unconvinced, but he knows he’s smiling at his hand, scratching methodically against the ground, knows that Jeremy can see him smiling. Knows, and knows, and feels warm, and _warm_.

Jeremy says, “Closest friend, huh?” and when Jean doesn’t deny this, adds, softer, “Are you and Kevin in touch at all?”

And Jean’s fingers still, and his entire body pauses, and he can feel it trying to shut down, but – but he’s trying to be honest with Jeremy, wherever he can, and this seems like something maybe he can – “No. We are not in touch.” He pauses, works out what Jeremy is really asking. “We weren’t friends. We were brothers. And he left.”

“Yeah,” says Jeremy.

“We are not in touch,” Jean says again.

Jeremy shifts a little closer, and Jean gathers his own knees up to his chest, so Jeremy slots his hips next to Jean’s, bumps their shoulders, and looks upwards. Jean allows himself to look at Jeremy’s neck, his chin, his cheekbones, his eyes, and then follows his gaze to the sky.

“I bet he’s sorry,” Jeremy says.

“About leaving?” Jean shakes his head, but Jeremy interrupts.

“About you.”

And Jean just looks at the sky. He just looks. He’s never appreciated anything more, than open, open sky. Than Jeremy, warm and pressed in. Says, “Maybe. I’m not sure I’d want him to be.”

Jeremy shrugs, and Jean feels it against his clothes, against his skin. “Only one way to find out.”

Jean doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, wants to tell Jeremy how he feels pressed up against him, half-turns his head to see, just to see, but Jeremy turns his head too and looks at Jean and smiles. Is half-lit up by moonlight. Is warm and smiling by Jean’s side. Is a breath away. So Jean kisses him.

It’s a shock of lips touching, warm, but sudden, and over, over so soon – and then it’s panic, and something like the threat of violence hovering over him, and something shameful like bile in his stomach, and it’s too many things at once, and Jean pulls away and says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _merde_ –”

And Jeremy reaches out his hands, and pulls Jean’s out of his hair, and holds them, and holds them, and finally Jean looks at him, because Jeremy hasn’t pulled away, and because Jean’s heart is pounding a mile a minute, and he needs to know someone is near him, and Jeremy says, “It’s ok. It’s ok.”

And Jean tilts his head forward and rests it on Jeremy’s shoulder, and Jeremy runs one hand round his back and up his spine, and Jean brings his arms round the back of Jeremy, and he just holds on, and breathes.

Jeremy mutters stupid things like _it’s ok_ , while Jean pulls himself together, fists his hands in Jeremy’s hoody, rough and real under his fingertips, focuses on the feel of Jeremy’s hand, warm and running up and down his back, pieces them together, threads them into his breath. Pushes memory away.

Jeremy says, quiet, “Are you ok?”

And Jean nods. And feels like he’s breathing normally again. And says, “I’m sorry.”

Jeremy shakes his head against Jean’s neck, his shoulder, chin scratching his skin. Says, “Are all French people this dumb?”

And Jean lifts his head to object, but then Jeremy is pressing his lips against Jean’s, one hand holding the back of his neck, the other curling into his tshirt, and his lips are so soft, and Jean’s heart is beating so fast, and he tightens his arms around Jeremy, and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

It’s only a few weeks later when Jean remembers their conversation. He’s been a little distracted. It turns out kissing Jeremy Knox takes up a lot of time. When they wake up. Between classes. At breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Everyone knows, because Jeremy won’t stop touching him. Places his hand on his knee, or his legs over his legs, or sits in his lap and throws his arms around his neck. The first time, Alvarez had just raised her eyebrows and said, “Huh,” but it was never mentioned again. Like this was just gospel now. Jean lets himself smile a little more every time Jeremy whispers, _ok there tiger_ , against his neck.

He still thinks about it, sometimes. At night, when the lights turn off and he can’t see the colour of the walls, and his roommate’s soft breathing sounds just like Micky’s, and he hears a shout from the hall and everything in his body tenses.

He can’t help it, sometimes. When his eyes are closed, and all he sees is darkness.

But he thinks he can contextualise it a little better now.

He thinks: death is a shortness of breath; like the road stopping here; like a pebble, still in the water; like no ripples spilling outwards; like an open mouth with no words; like never getting the chance to feel anything; like you don’t realise you’re sleeping.

Jean opens his eyes, and checks his phone. It’s 1am. He still has trouble getting to sleep before 1am. Jeremy, having fallen asleep in his arms a few times now, has mentioned it. Complained. Tired and pretending not to be, and asking Jean why he’s so awake.

Tonight Jeremy is in his own dorm, and Jean’s roommate is asleep, and Jean is awake.

He’s wide awake.

He scrolls through his phone, knows that Kevin will be finishing up night practise now.

He’s wide awake.

He touches his finger to Kevin’s contact, and holds the phone to his ear.

His roommate is fast asleep. His breath is still, caught in his chest.

He stares at the ceiling. Traces patterns in the half-dark with his eyes.

He’s _wide awake._

“…Hey.” 

“Hello. Kevin.”

“Jean, you… Hi. Jean.”

**Author's Note:**

> beautiful art:
> 
> https://bastgrr.tumblr.com/post/612927962238582784/my-pieces-for-aftgreverse-thank-you-so-much-for
> 
> thanks again to bastgrr!
> 
> if you read this despite it not seeming like it might be your thing, i have special love you xxx


End file.
